


What Lies Undone

by AsheRhyder



Series: More Than True [4]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Background Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Dragon!Hanzo, Ensemble Cast, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 18:56:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8296505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsheRhyder/pseuds/AsheRhyder
Summary: There are rules to this sort of thing. Not the common sort, made to be broken and bent and outright ignored, but the old kind, made for dealing with dangerous things.And they are all dangerous things, in Overwatch. McCree survives by knowing which rules to break and which to obey and when to do the opposite of what he usually does. Dangerous things stay dangerous because they can change - he knows this all too well.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chibimono](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibimono/gifts).



> Carries continuity on from the rest of the "More Than True" series. To avoid confusion, read the other three parts first.

     There are rules to this sort of thing. Not the common sort, made to be broken and bent and outright ignored. No, he knows these are the old sort, the kind he can only dismiss at his own peril. Things like:

  _Take nothing that is not freely given._

_Do not stray from the path._

   and _Tell no lies._

   Those sorts of old rules, made for treating with dangerous things.

 

   And they are all dangerous things in Overwatch.

 

   McCree survives by knowing which rules to break and which to obey and when to do the opposite of what he usually does. Dangerous things stay dangerous because they can change - he knows this all too well.

   With Hanzo, he uses the Old Rules. He thinks Hanzo might appreciate the formality of them.

 

_Listen._

_Provide._

_Protect._

 

   They seem silly, reduced to just those three words, but it’s the simplicity that makes them powerful. It gives them the flexibility to apply to the kinds of nuanced situations that surround Hanzo. In those three words, he finds the means to court a dragon.

 

_Listen._

_Provide._

_Protect._

 

* * *

 

_LISTEN_

 

   Hanzo says little out loud, and often times contradicts himself between word and deed when it comes to his personal well-being.

   He rarely speaks of his relationship with Genji. Most people get little more than a softly muttered, “fine” if they dare to ask at all. Ana Amari holds a record four-word response of “as well as expected” to her polite inquiry, possibly out of deference to her age, or possibly out of deference to the very large needles she carries.

   Jesse can tell how Hanzo’s daily meeting with Genji goes by the sound of his gait. On good days when they say little to each other about anything earlier than the past few months, Hanzo’s stride is swift and even, heels hitting the floor with confidence. On days when the brothers reminisce, memory makes Hanzo falter. His steps are softer, toe first, always ready to turn and run. The worst days are when they fight, when the words in their mouths are loaded guns and the aches and arguments of old give them itchy trigger fingers.

   Those days, Hanzo finds someplace high and out of easy sight lines, and Jesse doesn’t hear him walk at all.

   

   He leaves wall-climbing to the professional assassins. McCree is a bounty hunter, not an infiltrator, and he doggedly follows his prey with the persistence of a pursuit predator. It takes some doing, navigating the maze-like outer halls of the Watchpoint, but eventually he finds his way to Hanzo’s hiding spot. The combination of his winding trail and his jangling spurs give Hanzo ample time to retreat further if he wishes.

   Jesse listens; Hanzo stays in his perch, waiting to be found.

   He flops down beside the archer gracelessly, arms and legs sprawled across the space Hanzo himself doesn’t take.

   “You know, there’s a lot more comfortable places to sit a spell than on top an old storage container.” Jesse rolls onto his side so he can peer over the edge and read the warning on the side. “Lots safer, too.”

   Hanzo grunts, curling into himself in such a way that puts Jesse in mind of the dragon below the ruined castle.

   “Bastion’s garden is right nice, you know, up on the third level?” Jesse continues. “Or if you’re dead set on the desolated industrial aesthetic, there’s the busted washroom in sector six-B. It’s at least got heat, if not running water and lights.”

   Hanzo hums, noncommittally.

   Jesse closes in for the kill at the sound of that hum, sitting up so he can lean into the zone Jack dubbed ‘close enough to care’, once upon a time.

   “Not many people would find you up here,” he says. “Pretty sure it’d just be your brother. But if you’re waiting on him, you’re going to be waiting a while. The both of you are runners, and he’s had longer to find a place to hole up.”

   Fury and embarrassment cloud Hanzo’s face for an instant before condensing into a torrential epiphany. Hanzo smirks and proves that Genji isn’t the only Shimada who knows how to deflect.

   “You found me,” he says. Something in his eyes is proud to the point of possessive, and Jesse feels old thunder in his bones, stirring up the dust.

   He swallows against the heat in his gut and waits for the sidewinder in his veins to settle down. The Rules, he reminds himself to drown out the call of the wild. Listen, know when to listen, and when not to listen.

   “If you’ll remember,” says Jesse just a little too softly, “last time I carried you to your brother.”

   Hanzo’s face drains of color.

   “You wouldn’t.” He leans back. “You cannot.”

   Jesse’s fingers curl, and he wraps them around his knees to keep himself from grabbing.

   “You wanna bet on that, Sunshine?” His grin is wolfish. He cannot tame the curl of his lips.

   Hanzo’s eyes flicker over his face, coming back to his mouth again and again. Jesse wrangles his expression to something more friendly with a sudden, panic-born spur of willpower.

   “I…” Hanzo falters, meeting his gaze and freezing. Jesse cuts him some slack and gets to his feet, holding out his hand to help Hanzo do the same.

   “C’mon. Genji’s probably squirreled away with Zenyatta in that little rock garden they carved out.”

 

  _Listen._

_Provide._

_Protect._

 

       He repeats it to himself the whole way through the base like a prayer, like a mantra. He repeats it like it can protect him from the heat in his heart that burns in his blood when he realizes Hanzo has not let go of his hand. He repeats it like it can keep Hanzo from getting burned.

 

_Listen._

_Provide._

_Protect._

 

    Genji is, as he expected, meditating with Zenyatta. The Omnic monk quickly coaxed grass and flowers from the rocky soil, though no one knows quite how, and it is a peaceful place to which both master and student retreat with some frequency.

    Jesse knows this because he’s caught their trails on multiple occasions - often during his hunts for Hanzo. Still, he’s never followed all the way to the little field in to which he now leads Hanzo. If his steps are uncertain, at least they do not stop.

 

    He doesn’t know what he’s going to say when they get there. Getting Hanzo to come with him in the first place was the obstacle that required the most care, and their journey is too fraught with both mens’ internal crises for any real planning.

    Fortunately, Zenyatta makes things easy on him. The moment they round the corner, the monk rises to meet them, putting himself between his pupil and the door.

    “McCree,” says Zenyatta. “Excellent timing. I would like to speak with you a moment.”

    McCree falters.

    “What, me?”

    “Hanzo, would you please wait here?” Zenyatta gestures for the archer to pass into the garden with one hand. The other sits over Jesse’s shoulder, not infringing enough to touch but with a distinct air of shepherding. Hanzo looks stricken a moment before his resolve calcifies. He nods decisively before striding over to Genji.

    Zenyatta leads McCree back into the hall, and the man shifts like a nervous colt. The Omnic’s hand slides down to rest above his chest, above his heart.

    “I can sense in you something wild,” says Zenyatta quietly.

    “Well, they don’t call it the Wild West for nothing,” McCree laughs, startled and weak. 

    Zenyatta hums contemplatively.

    “You do not have to keep it locked away. Nature is neither good nor evil,” he says. “It simply is.”

    McCree’s eyes darken.

    “That doesn’t stop it from hurting people.” His voice comes out low, almost in a growl.

    “Nor does it prevent it from helping.” Zenyatta shrugs. “Fire can destroy forests and homes, and it can illuminate and warm. Do not shun it because of what it may do.”

     “If I’m shunning anything, Zen, it’s on account of what it _has_ done.” McCree shakes his head. Zenyatta turns slightly as if glancing back to where Hanzo and Genji speak softly but gesture animatedly.

     “Is it the same judgment you pass on others?”

     McCree reels. He barely manages to stop from baring his teeth.

     “It’s not the same at all,” he hisses. Zenyatta finally drops his his hand on Jesse’s shoulder.

     “It was not my intention to distress you,” he says. “I merely wanted to try and help calm the storm in your heart.”

     Jesse scowls.

     “That’s the thing about storms, Zen. There ain’t no calming them. You just gotta wait them out.”

 

* * *

 

_PROVIDE_

 

      Thus far, Jesse likes to think he’s done a pretty good job of providing. He’s given Hanzo access to his food, his friends, and his home. Everything that’s kept him together and grounded all these years, he shares.

      He cooks meals big enough to feed an army and draws everyone to the table with the scent of good things to eat. He’s a chef by necessity - no one thrives on beans and coffee, no matter what the old cowboy movies say - but he’s a gourmand by experience. He’s been all over the world, and he’s tasted the flavor of every country and every city into which he’s stepped foot. He’s seen just how fast peoples’ defenses drop over a shared table. Nothing humanizes like eating together. (Except maybe barbecue, but that’s a different thing entirely.)

      If he gives Hanzo the best portions, well, none of the others are so ungrateful as to complain.

 

      He’s only just gotten a nod of acceptance from Satya on his New, Improved, and (no thanks to Lena) Accurate curry recipe when Jack brings out the dice.

      “Oh no you don’t,” Jesse glowers at the old man, a threatening ladle in one hand. “You did not bring that God-forsaken game to the dinner table.”

      Jack stares blankly, something he can do even without the mouthguard portion of his visor rig. What he can’t do, what Jack could never really do, is flat out lie.

      “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It’s the most unconvincing statement ever spoken out loud. Everyone else at the table winces to hear it, including Hanzo. Jesse has a horrible moment of sympathy for Ana for putting up with this years ago, but the words still come out of his mouth regardless.  

      “Exactly who do you think you’re fooling? Do you think I haven’t seen those damn little Risk tokens popping up all over the place? They sure as hell ain’t spec ops. I found the ones on top the fridge before I even crossed the room.”

      “No, my artillery…” Mei whines. Zarya pats her shoulder consolingly, then ruins the moment by saying, “Should have known better to invade Russian territory in winter.”

      Jesse ignores them.

      “It’s a training exercise,” Jack says. He even manages to keep a straight face. Hana, and surprisingly, Hanzo, do not.

      “Et tu, Hanzo?” Jesse sighs. Hanzo blinks, trying to place the unfamiliar words. “He’s got you in on it, too?”

      Hanzo doesn’t exactly blush, but he does make an adorable panicked sound. Hana has no such shame.

     “Hey, Hanzo’s a great general,” she says. “We took back the whole fourth floor thanks to him.”

     “ _‘We_ ’?” McCree scowls at Jack. “How many of them did you draft? Is anyone _not_ playing?”

      Angela raises her hand.

     “Medical is claimed for Switzerland and is neutral.”

     Winston likewise holds his hands up in surrender.  

     “I learned my lesson the first time around.”

     Zenyatta raises several hands.

     “The wars of the physical world are not the path to spiritual enlightenment.”

     “He won’t play because Soldier won’t let him be on our team,” Genji says.

     “Because they’d be unbalanced!” Jack snaps. Zenyatta nods agreeably.

     “Balance must be preserved.”

     “And you didn’t ask me? I’m hurt.” Jesse drawls. Jack points a finger at him.

     “I know who trained you, and how the last game you were involved with ended.”

     Jesse swallows a bubble of nostalgia - never as good as he thinks it will be, the second time around - and sighs.

     “C’mon, they dropped the charges eventually. It’s not like you got banned from Canada forever.”

     The original members of Overwatch flinch. The new ones look intrigued.

     “This game is even more interesting than I thought,” Hana whispers to Lúcio, who nods raptly.

     Hanzo gives Jack a long, assessing stare. He’s quite good at looking judgmental, and Jesse thinks he looks good doing it, too, particularly when he’s being judgmental of Jack.

     “Real Canada, or in-game Canada?” he asks.

     “Both,” Jack admits miserably.

     Hanzo wrinkles his nose.

     “You should surrender now and spare your troops the indignity.”

     “Can’t lose what you don’t have in the first place,” shrugs Torbjörn. Jack glares at him.

     “You’re supposed to be on my team.”

     “And I am. I’m just being honest. I remember what you did to Denmark.”

     “What did he do to Denmark?” Hana and Lúcio ask simultaneously.

     Jack chokes.

     “Not nearly enough,” Torbjörn leers.

     Jesse chuckles and refills Satya’s plate. She ignores him to hold out her hand to Jack, who reluctantly passes the dice.

     “So you’re following Hanzo’s banner, too?” Jesse raises an eyebrow.

     “He has an orderly plan and a good eye for tactics,” she says.

     Hanzo focuses relentlessly on clearing his plate, and Jesse gives him seconds to keep him from making a tactical retreat. The archer shoots him an aggrieved glare, but Jesse smiles and sits next to him. Hanzo slows down. The meal peters out at a more relaxed pace; Satya disappearing first to go take her turn at the game, and then Lúcio and Reinhardt heading into the kitchen to finish cleaning up as thanks for McCree cooking. One by one, the others depart, until even Jack finally goes to hunt down whatever maneuver Satya pulled.

     Jesse and Hanzo are left alone together.

 

     “I’m glad you’re getting on well with everyone,” Jesse says, startling Hanzo from whatever reverie distracts him. “You seemed pretty worried when you started that you wouldn’t, but here you are, leading an army.”

     “It’s a training exercise,” Hanzo mutters unconvincingly.

     “Don’t mean ya’ll can’t enjoy yourselves.” Jesse beams. “One of life’s great satisfactions - being able to take pride _and_ pleasure in your work.”

     “I suppose.” Hanzo nods. “I am surprised that Soldier:76 did not recruit you. He seemed… rather intent on winning.”

     “Like the man said, he knows who taught me.” Jesse shrugs and ends up stretching to try and unknot the old tension that creeps through the back of his neck. “Most people don’t play Risk with black ops.”

     Hanzo raises an eyebrow. The tiniest hint of a smirk dimples his cheek, cautious and exploratory.

     “Most people do not play Risk with soldiers and assassins,” he says. “I don’t see why you should be forbidden.”

     Jesse’s grin is savage, hungry for something curry will never sate. Trust Hanzo to provide him with an exquisite diversion.

 

     Jack never does figure out how Hanzo’s team makes a swift and terrible coup d’etat through the kitchen.

 

* * *

  
_PROTECT_

 

    Neither Jesse nor Hanzo are any stranger to blood loss; Jesse alone has lost enough in his career to drain him dry if it had all been at once, and Hanzo’s history is just as colorful. They are not wilting flowers or made of glass,and that’s not what the third rule is about, anyway.

    Oh, certainly, they each watch the other’s back, shooting any enemy that dares try to flank them. There’s a running tally in one of the shuttles of who has saved the other’s ass how many times. (They’re tied in the tally. Hanzo doesn’t count turning into a dragon to keep Jesse from being crushed. Jesse does.)

    And of course, there are times when a bullet or an arrow doesn’t solve the problem, and one takes a hit for the other. But that’s all in the tally.

 

    The third rule is more about making sure Hanzo doesn’t wake up alone in medical after getting dragged off his perch head-first during a training exercise gone wrong. It’s about wrapping a warm hand around Hanzo’s wrist when he startles awake with a desolate cry. It’s about ignoring the momentary flush of scales along skin, and instead brushing Hanzo’s hair away from his temporarily serpentine eyes.

    “It’s all right,” Jesse murmurs. He waits until Hanzo stops twitching to let go and grab a cup of ice chips. Hanzo won’t meet his gaze; he curls in on himself, tucking his arms under the thin hospital blanket even though his skin is soft and human already.

Jesse picks up an ice chip and holds it up to Hanzo’s dry lips. Hanzo flinches back from the sudden cold, but there’s no real escape in a hospital bed. Jesse’s fingers go numb, but it’s worth it for the moment when Hanzo leans forward and takes the ice between his teeth.

    He feeds him ice chips until Hanzo’s shoulders stop trembling and the archer can hold the cup for himself.

    “Hadn’t had a roof fall on you in a while, so you had to fall off the roof, huh?” Jesse asks. Compared to the delicacy of his hands, his words are sledgehammers, but Hanzo laughs anyway.

    “In my defense, there was a very large hook around my neck,” Hanzo almost manages a smile.

    “Gonna get you a crash helmet,” Jesse says, brushing the same stubborn lock back again.

    “Don’t be ridiculous,” says Hanzo. “Why would I need a helmet when you’re always here?” The muscle between his jaw and shoulder pops with tension, and Jesse can all but hear the man’s heart pound. The thunder of it drums alongside the lightning in his blood, and he has to pull away before his fingertips start to burn. His heart is wildfire, and if he doesn’t make a firebreak, it will consume everything before it.

 

_Listen._

_Provide._

_Protect._

 

    He is quickly becoming something from which Hanzo should be protected.

 

    _Listen._

_Provide._

_Protect._

 

    He drills down into the bedrock of his self-control to keep his demeanor easy. He rises from his chair slowly, every motion deliberate and even.

    “I better let Angela know you’re up. She’s been seeing to everyone else since you seemed pretty stable.”

    That causes Hanzo to look up sharply.

    “Are _you_ hurt?” He demands.

    Jesse swallows down his storm.

    “Me? Right as rain, sugar lamb. Right as rain.”

   

    He gets before Hanzo has a chance to ask what a sugar lamb is, or why it should stay away from rain.

 

_Listen._

_Provide._

_Protect_.

 

* * *

 

    Genji finds McCree sitting in Zenyatta’s garden on a moonlit night, hands curled claw-like around a package wrapped in brown paper. In the darkness, he’s just a conglomerate of barely noticeable shapes defined by the low but vibrant glows of his equipment and cigarillo. Something about him gives Genji pause, something in the strange sheen of his eyes, perhaps.

    McCree’s eyes have always been dangerous.

    “Jesse?” Genji calls out to him softly. The air shifts slightly as McCree refocuses on the cyborg. The ember of his cigarillo glows brighter as he draws in a ragged breath. Genji steps closer, alarmed for his friend, but Jesse snarls.

    “Stop.”

    Genji’s feet freeze against his intention.

    “What’s wrong?”

    Jesse sighs.

    “I told you it wasn’t altruism,” he growls. “I told you I ain’t a white hat.”

    “I think very few of us here fit that description,” Genji says. “You are speaking about my brother?”

    “I want him.” McCree’s voice is deep. Rough. Wild. Genji finds himself shivering despite his cybernetics.

    “And this is a problem? You are both grown men. You hardly need anyone’s permission but each other’s.” Genji keeps his tone light, but the phantom memory of his skin crawls at the strange timbre of McCree’s words.

    “I _want_ him.” Jesse repeats, and it shouldn’t be possible to purr on a vowel, but he does. “But he doesn’t--”

    “Are you joking or blind?” Genji asks, incredulity buffering the creeping apprehension. He can see the exact instant he has Jesse’s full attention, because the man’s eyes catch the light wrong and seem to reflect it back like a cat’s. Genji swallows a sigh at the confirmation of his suspicions. What a world they live in, that has such wonders so frequently. At least he has an inkling of why Zenyatta pulled Jesse aside. “Of course he wants you, too.”

    It’s the wrong thing to say.

    He can see it in an instant.

    McCree suddenly towers over him, a mountain with an avalanche of fury.

    “Because I’m always pushing at him!” Jesse snaps. “I done dragged him around all the time, hauling him out of whatever damn building’s fallen on him -- I just pushed my way into his life without a by your leave, and now he’s stuck with me!”

    Genji takes a moment to process the rant, and the surreality of the situation makes almost makes him giggle.

    “Are you -- are you saying _Hanzo_ has … what is it called, Stockholm Syndrome?” How he says it without cracking up, Genji doesn’t know, but the absurdity at least gets McCree to stop looking like a volcano about to erupt.

    “What? No! I’m saying --” He rocks back, pushes his hat out of the way, and the moonlight softens him. He’s just a man, a confused, frustrated man, but a man nonetheless. “I’m saying, he oughta get a chance to decide for himself what or who he wants. And he can’t do that if I’m snapping at everything that comes in a two-mile radius of him.”

    “You have shown remarkable restraint thus far,” Genji says. “I have not seen any sign of this so-called ‘snapping’.”

    Jesse runs one hand through his hair. The other clutches the package so tightly that the paper creases.

    “I got a lot of practice,” he mutters darkly. “I gotta… I just gotta clear my head a bit. Get focused. You know.”

    The excuses sound weak even to Genji, but he allows his friend the illusion of composure.

    “Will you explain it to him?” He asks. Jesse recoils so sharply that he drops the package. Genji catches it; whatever’s inside is soft and light.

    “I -- It don’t need explaining. I never said--” Jesse stammers. Genji tilts his head the way someone else might raise an eyebrow. It’s an expectant gesture, patient, but not _too_ patient.

    Jesse shakes his head.

    “It’s fine. Look, I only told you ‘cause I want to ask a favor from you.”

    “A favor?”

    “More of… a promise, really.”

    “A promise.” Genji tastes the word and finds it bitter.

    “I never wanted anyone like I want your brother,” Jesse says, plain and clear. “If I fuck this up - and believe me, you’ll know - I want you to promise not to let me hurt anyone.”

    “What do you think you will do that requires such a promise?” Genji asks quietly. McCree tilts his head again, eyes bright in the dark with the reflected moonlight.

    “Like I said,” he whispers, “it was never altruism. I know what happened to him too well for that.”

    “Jesse--”

    “Don’t. Please. Just promise.”

    The weight of the oath presses on him, but Genji finds strength to drop his hand on Jesse’s shoulder.

    “My brother has proven not all such things are harmful. Should it come to that, I will not let you hurt anyone who does not deserve it.”

    Jesse breathes out.

    “That’ll have to do.”

    Genji holds out the parcel, but Jesse shakes his head.

    “Jesse--”

    “No, it’s-- it _was_ gonna be a gift for Hanzo, before I got my head outta the clouds and realized I was taking all his time. I don’t... It’s not the kind of thing I can just give him, anyway. Just… can you get rid of it? Please?”

    Genji looks at the package - carefully wrapped despite its plain appearance. He looks at Jesse, earnest appeal around antique caution.

    He sighs.

    “I will handle the situation.”

* * *

 

_LISTEN_

_PROVIDE_

_PROTECT_

 

* * *

 

    The package thrown at his head interrupts Hanzo’s already less than successful attempt at meditation. He manages to grab it out of the air, fingers crinkling coarse paper and something soft within. Hanzo opens his eyes in confusion.

    Genji, the little brat, applauds.

    “Well done, brother. No present can slip through your keen notice.”

    Hanzo scowls at him.

    “Present?”

    “A gift. You know, an object given to another person without cost or condition?”

    “I know what a present _is_. What I don’t know is why you are throwing one at my head.” Hanzo says. “Even you must be more careful with the things given to you than this.”

    “It won’t break,” says Genji. “And it’s not for me, it’s for you.”

    “Me?” Hanzo blinks. “I have done nothing to warrant a gift. It’s not even my birthday.”

    “Sometimes, brother, people give each other things just for the sheer joy it brings.”

    If this is the case, Genji will be sorely disappointed, as Hanzo’s frown only deepens.

    “What is it?” He examines the package, delicately turning it over in his hands. Something about it seems somehow off; the paper is creased in ways that make it look as if it were re-wrapped several times, or at least carelessly handled.

    “If you open it, you will see.”

    Hanzo hesitates.

    “I have nothing for you.”

    Genji waves him off.

    “You don’t need to,” he says. “No conditions, remember?” But Hanzo’s brow creases in dismay, and Genji has to sigh. “If you use it, I will consider myself duly repaid.”

    The lack of context rekindles Hanzo’s curiosity, and he opens the package cautiously. Inside is a length of silk, much like the ribbon in his hair, only scarlet and gold instead of gold and white. It’s warm and smooth under his hands, like touching sunlight, and the fractals of the pattern sweep along the length like the rising light of day.

    The burning in Hanzo’s chest reminds him he needs to breathe, not just drink in the crimson color that reminds him of the serape McCree loaned him in that ill-fated warehouse.

    “Do you like it?” Genji asks, startling him.

    “I-- yes.” The callouses of his hands catch slightly on the lustrous fabric, not enough to snag, but just so that he can feel the minute texture variations that denote handwoven work. “It’s beautiful. Too--”

    “Do not,” Genji snaps, jolting Hanzo a second time. “Do not say it is too good for you.”

    Hanzo doesn’t cringe, at least not by the standards of anyone with a healthy concept of emotional expression, but the tremors that once rocked him as a dragon are still visible in the set of his human shoulders. He draws a slow, even breath.

    “It’s too nice to wear into battle.”

    “Then wear it here on base,” Genji shrugs. “Here, wear it now.”

 

    Genji’s hands are neither as small nor as soft as they were the last time he helped Hanzo with his hair, and if Hanzo is honest about it, they have no more skill now than they did when Genji was eight, either. Still, the archer lets his brother untie the old ribbon and wrap the new one in its place, red around black and gold brightening both.

    Genji steps back to admire his handiwork.

    “Well?”

    “It’s probably for the best that I’m a ninja, not a hairdresser.” Genji sighs. “The color suits you, but I have no talent.”

    Hanzo chokes a laugh.

    “I could have told you that.”

    Genji gasps theatrically and places a hand over where his heart would be.

    “And ruin my dreams of the grand life of the salon circuit? Brother, you would never.” He catches the twitch to Hanzo’s shoulder and reaches out, pulling the ribbon over the afflicted muscle. “It’s a good color for you. Make sure you wear it often.”

    Hanzo bows his head.

    “Thank you, again. I will find a way to repay you.”

    “Against the concept of a gift, Brother!” Genji laughs, but under his helmet, he wonders if he’s doing the right thing after all. In some lights, the red is the color of sunset. In others, it looks like blood.

* * *

 

_LISTEN_

_PROVIDE_

_PROTECT_

* * *

 

    Jesse sees the flash of crimson and gold and promptly walks into the door frame. In the common room, Hana stops trying to get Hanzo to coordinate his _kyudo-_ _gi_ and _hakama_ with the new ribbon so they can color-coordinate the whole team, and the both of them lean over the back of the couch to peer at the cowboy prone on the floor.

    “That looks painful,” she says. “Are you okay? Do I need to call Angela?”

    “I’m fine,” Jesse grunts, rolling back to his feet. “Just wasn’t paying attention to where I was going, I guess.”

    “Obviously,” she stares. “Seriously, how many fingers am I holding up?”

    “Three. I’m fine, really, don’t--” Jesse’s protests are cut off as Hanzo gets up and crosses the room to inspect the reddening mark across his face. Hanzo then circles around and runs his fingers through Jesse’s tangled hair, checking to see if he hit the back of his head in landing, so he misses the expression of bliss on Jesse’s face with each gentle, exploratory stroke.

 

    Hana does not.

 

    Her expression can only be compared to that of a child for whom every holiday has been combined into a single moment, and all the wonder of the world is made her present.

   

    Jesse breathes deep through his nose and nearly whines.

    “You should be fine,” says Hanzo, bending down to pick up the cowboy’s hat. He goes to hand it to him, only to find the man’s attention locked on the ribbon in his hair. Caught staring, Jesse’s face flushes red.

    “Er, thanks.” Jesse takes his hat back. Their fingers graze, and Jesse’s whole hand spasms, almost making him drop the hat again. He gestures helplessly at the ribbon, and ends up accidentally dragging it across Hanzo’s bare shoulder. “Er. Um. Nice-- ah. It looks -- good.”

    “Thank you.” Hanzo smiles at him, the warmth of the silk seeping into him like the warmth from Jesse’s attention.

    “I -- you -- welcome.” Jesse’s pupils are so wide that his eyes appear black, and he blinks a few times before giving himself a shake. “Lemme guess. Genji?”

    “How did you know?”

    “Seemed familiar. Think I remember talking to him about it.” Jesse shifts uneasily; Hanzo can tell it’s not the whole truth, but the taller man just jams his hat back onto his head and looks away. “I gotta get. Sorry for interrupting.”

    Hanzo feels the loss of his gaze like a wound, and he watches Jesse amble down the hall as the storm in his chest stirs and seethes. He takes a deep breath and turns back to Hana. Her expression makes him take a step back.

    “Yes?” He asks cautiously.

    She smiles.

    “Nothing.” She sounds too sweet, and Hanzo scowls. “I just realized where I’ve seen those colors before.”

    “Red and gold are not a novel combination.” He protests, but in his mind’s eye, he sees only Jesse’s serape, lost beneath the thorns, and the memory of the scent of the sky aches in his lungs.

    “Iron Man. Gryffindor. House Lannister. And others.” She nods. “It’s just sort of strange to see him without it. Do you think he can find another one?”

    “Maybe,” says Hanzo. He thinks of the vast stretch of days since they were trapped by thorns and rescued by ice, and the missing serape features in his every memory of McCree.

    Perhaps the man would appreciate its return. After all, it’s Hanzo’s fault it’s gone.

* * *

 

**LISTEN**

**PROVIDE**

**PROTECT**

* * *

 

    It’s startlingly easy to get Winston to agree to let him go back to the site of the mission that the younger team members call “Sleeping Beauty’s Nightmare”. Winston has had it on his list for a clean-up sweep for a while, but the priority is relatively low compared to other situations that keep popping up. The gorilla claps him on the shoulder and beams when he suggests it.

    “Taking the initiative. I like the way you think. Good work.”

    Hanzo can’t bear to explain his motives after praise like that, so he stoically accepts Winston’s checklist of protocol and other things to look for and reiterates that no, he doesn’t need a full team - with the destruction involved, recovery of anything useful is incredibly unlikely, so the ‘mission’ will be mundane. McCree’s sudden absence from their usual meeting places leaves Hanzo with an abundance of time on his hands that could be put to better use than the same training exercises over and over.

    And just like that, Winston nods sagely and gives him an even more sympathetic look.

    “Ah, well. He’ll come around, I’m sure. If you do need help, just radio in. I’ve got a team on the field in Eichenwald that’s not too far away, and they can extract you if necessary,” says Winston.

 

    Hanzo assures him it won’t be necessary.

 

    Hanzo is wrong.

 

    A consummate professional, Hanzo finishes Winston’s list before starting his search for McCree’s lost serape. It only takes him half the day, and he actually does manage to find a few viable samples they missed on their first visit, so even if he doesn’t find the missing cloth, at least the trip isn’t a total waste. The clean-up gives him time to construct a mental map of the layout and recall where he dropped the serape. Six hours of careful rubble shifting later, and he’s managed to reach the garment, somehow almost untouched by the disaster around it. Even the deathly scent of the plants that used to grow in the facility has not settled into the fabric. Hanzo takes it as a sign.

    He checks in with Winston, who informs him the other team is encountering some unexpected - “but completely manageable!” - resistance and when he’s finished there, would he mind swinging by the site at Eichenwald and lending a hand?

    “Of course. I can leave now, if you wish--”

    “No, get some rest first.” Winston tells him. “If Talon has reinforcements on the way, I don’t want you running into them without backup available. I’ll let McCree know to expect you, and you should be able to meet up safely in the morning.”

    “McCree?” Hanzo feels his insides twist, and he reaches for the serape without thinking.

    “Soldier is technically running the op, but McCree’s the one who works best with you, so…” Winston trails off. “Is that okay?”

    “Yes.” Hanzo says immediately. “Yes, that is fine. Everything is fine. I will meet up with him in the morning.”

 

    But of course, it’s never as simple as that. Talon’s reinforcements are led by the same specter that fought them for the warehouse site the last time Hanzo was there, and for some reason Hanzo can’t fathom, it decides to sweep through the site again in the middle of the night before heading to Eichenwald.

    Hanzo blames his exhaustion for his only coherent thought - amid being shot at while climbing through ruins and rubble at three o’clock in the morning - is that he should have remembered to change his ribbon before leaving the base.

    The scarlet silk streams behind him like a ghostly trail of blood, and he feels an icy chill down his spine as he runs through a familiar cloud of ghastly shadows.

    Blood, calling to Death.

    The ghost solidifies just after Hanzo’s arrow goes through its glowing eye. Its claws lock onto the ribbon, halting Hanzo’s flight with a painful jerk.

    “ **So the whelp took a mate,** ” the ghost chuckles. Hanzo swipes at it with his bow, but the ghost just pulls harder. “ **Gave you his colors and everything. How… traditional. McCree always ran hot blooded. I wonder… if I bring him your head, do you think he’ll let his old self come out to play? I know a few people who’d love to meet him.** ”

    In an instant, the dread in Hanzo’s gut sublimates to fury. He rages for the things he didn’t say, for the things Jesse didn’t say, for whatever it was that Genji knew and manipulated and never said, either. His anger calls to his family’s dragons, and his pain calls to his own beast. He screams his summons into the night, and he is answered.

    It’s not a perfect shot: he’s too close, he’s at the wrong angle, and he has no channel but his own skin. Human flesh cannot carry that much power on its own, but even as the dragons tear their way free, his beast rides under them. Skin shreds and peels away from scales, blood splatters, silk tears, and the ghost flies back, all ichor and smoke. The last thing Hanzo sees as he falls amidst the rubble is the ghost’s silver talons around the dripping, scarlet silk.

    The darkness does not follow him down, but the cold is waiting for him like an old friend, and he sinks into its embrace with little more than a sigh.

 

    He loses some time. He doesn’t know how much, only that he comes back to consciousness as the beast in his skin shrieks their mutual despair.

    The ghost wants McCree. It thinks it can use Hanzo’s death to accomplish its goal. It seeks to take what Hanzo may yet one day claim as his own.

    As they say in America, “fuck that”.

 

_LISTEN_

_PROVIDE_

_PROTECT_

 

    He has to protect McCree. He has to warn Jesse that the wrathful ghost is coming for him, that it’s trying to drag something out of him that the man has fought to keep buried.

    Hanzo knows what that fight is like.

 

    He climbs his way out of the rubble without feeling the stone or thorns, and he makes his way into the transport. Small shuttles only carry a small medkit, just enough to give him the strength to drive and work the radio. Exhaustion and cold are too deeply settled into his bones for anything else.

    There is no response from the other team, nor from HQ.

    If Talon has been clever about their actions and as widely spread as their latest encounter implies, it’s likely they carry jammers to prevent their enemies from reporting their actions. Hanzo can only hope Winston got the last message through to the other team before the systems went down.

 

    He drives in silence, the serape and his bow on the seat beside him, and he feels cold. After a while he drags the serape over and wraps it around his shoulders. While not as soft as the lost ribbon, the weight of it is just as comforting, and if he lets his mind drift, he thinks he can still smell the sky.

   

    He has to protect McCree.

 

_LISTEN_

_PROVIDE_

_PROTECT_

 

    The screens pick up the standoff well before Hanzo is actually in range to do anything about it. Ah, the joys of modern technology. Through the transport’s environmental scanners and scoped cameras, he can see Talon agents shift their weapons to a waiting position as the ghost strides through them, bloody ribbon clasped in its claws.

    Hanzo’s teammates are spread across the map: Soldier:76 favoring his right side with a wounded Genji hunkered down behind a broken wall, Lúcio leaning on Reinhardt and tucked into a blown-open shop with the latter’s energy shield in front of them, McCree with his back against a wall and peering around a corner as the ghost holds up its prize. The radio comes in range of the comm system just in time for Hanzo to hear the others make strangled gasps, calling both his name and Jesse’s.

    Before Hanzo can grab the handset to tell them he’s alive, all other sound is drowned out by the howl.

    The Talon agents take a step back. Soldier’s head snaps up, and he grabs Genji and starts running. Reinhardt does the same with Lúcio. Jesse doubles over, falls to his knees…

 

    … and a beast rises in his place.

 

    It’s unlike any creature Hanzo has ever seen, real or imagined. The behemoth appears to be constructed haphazardly, piecemeal, from animals whose names Hanzo never thought he’d need to know: here a canine snout, there a set of spiral horns, the mane of a lion blending into a ruff of feathers that burn like fire on one side and spark like lightning on the other. One limb ends in a hoof, another in raptor’s claws, the third in a paw. The stump of his missing arm is marked with the distinct patterned fur of jaguars, and the striking colors of poisonous snakes ripple around his waist. He’s a melting pot of deadly things, and he lunges for the ghost.

    The ghost rises up to meet him, becoming an ever-expanding monstrosity of black smoke and too many red eyes and shadowy tentacles that put Hanzo in mind of a certain horror mythos. Part of the ghost is made of mouths with terrible teeth that snarl curses, and part of it is made of arms that reach out in desperation, grasping nothing. An eldritch horror makes for a more than formidable adversary for the chimera.

Neither creature gives any heed to their surroundings as they clash, and they crush beneath them those Talon agents who did not have the wherewithal to follow Overwatch’s retreat. The screams, at least, are brief. Hanzo turns his eyes to the road and tries not to notice the conspicuous sprays of black and crimson in the distance, lest he go mad with helplessness.

    He pulls up in front of his fleeing teammates and hits the shuttle door open. Reinhardt won’t fit inside the small shuttle, not in his armor, but once Lúcio is safe he can turn on his thrusters if they need to make a quick escape.

    “Brother!” Genji cries out, the damaged remains of an arm and a leg sparking wildly as he struggles to get closer. “You’re alive!”

    “That’s about the only good news we’re getting today,” Soldier grumbles, trying to get him to sit still and buckled in. “Unless you brought enough tranqs to put down a herd of elephants?”

    Hanzo shakes his head.

    “You have to let me go, I promised him--” Genji protests, still trying to rise.

    “You’re not going anywhere, and you’re not in any state to do anything about any promises, so sit your happy tin ass down before I actually lose a teammate today!” Soldier snaps.

    “Okay, I know why we’re not all that surprised, but why aren’t you more freaked out about this?” Lúcio demands, gesturing out the window. “You’re grumpy, yeah, but that’s not shock.”

    An oozy black appendage lands in front of the transport, ripped free of its host while the grasping hands still reach hopelessly for something to catch. Everyone in the transport flinches.

    “Let’s just say he wasn’t having a very good time when he first came to Overwatch and get out of here, shall we?” Soldier grunts. “We can come back when we have the supplies to-- Hey! Hanzo! Come back here!”

    But Hanzo is already out the door and running, bow in one hand and the other clutching the serape close to his chest. He doesn’t even hear his brother calling after him.

 

    He scales a wall to get a better view and almost regrets it. Up close, the damage is uglier, more brutal. Violence is one thing; carnage is something else entirely.

    He sees a shot. Takes it. Feels the weight of the serape on his shoulders and how it affects his draw, how his arrow flies. He moves to another spot before the ghost can turn its attention on him. Finds another shot. Adjusts. Takes it. Moves. He empties his quiver until he is close enough to have a sure, safe spot, and then he calls the dragons. They rip through the ghost without touching the chimera that claws his way into what could be called the ghost’s chest, rending and discarding oily pulp.

    The ghost fades away with a scream. The beast that remains slumps, oozing blood from his wounds and ichor from his jaws.

    Hanzo’s heart aches to see the beast bow his head over the scrap of scarlet silk.

    “Jesse!” He yells, expecting to see the shaggy head snap up and turn towards him. Instead, he sees the massive shoulders shake.

    Oh, he thinks. So this is what it feels like, to see it from the outside.

 

    He climbs down as swiftly as he’s able, given the encumbrance of his bow and the serape. He navigates through the ghostly remains torn off earlier in the fight, now evaporating in the mid-morning sunlight. Shame keeps Jesse trapped in his beast-shape, but it’s his injuries that prevent him from escaping to hide before Hanzo can reach him. The pavement around him hosts a crimson lake.

    “Jesse.” Hanzo wades forward and finds a place to put his hand that doesn’t look like an open wound. Jesse shudders and tries to curl in on himself, an exercise both futile and unsuccessful. Hanzo tries to think of something to say, but he can’t find any words in English or Japanese, and in the end he just gives up on words entirely.

 

    The dragon lays down by the chimera. It’s long, serpentine body curls close against the other beast’s amalgamous spine like an embrace.

 

    The archer lays beside the cowboy. They draw deep, ragged breaths, grounding themselves in the feelings of their hands gripping at each others’ shirts.

 

    Hanzo lays beside Jesse. He cards his one hand through Jesse’s hair, and the other fumbles to tangle their fingers together.

 

    The blood vanishes when they change, something a more rational mind would register with gratefulness and curiosity. The two men clinging to each other see only each other, and feel only relief and adoration. They each catalog the other’s injuries - the remaining damage from the flawed summon and thorns that the medkit didn’t heal, the bruises and bites left by too many tentacles and teeth.

    “He said he killed you.” Grief and hope strip Jesse’s voice raw between them. Each word is a haunted survivor of their war. “I didn’t get to-- I _couldn’t_ \-- and then… I came undone.”

    Hanzo’s voice is a casualty of the same struggle. Instead of speaking, he grips Jesse’s hand tighter and pulls it close to his heart so that Jesse can feel the thunderstorm between beats. He wills him to understand what he has trouble saying.

    Awe flickers through Jesse’s face, darkening in his eyes and glistening on his lips.

    “Hanzo,” he rumbles. It’s almost a growl.

    “Jesse,” Hanzo tries to say. It comes out more like a gasp, which Hanzo feels is unfair. He isn’t the one who roared himself hoarse, is he?

    “I want you,” Jesse murmurs. His fingers splay across the smooth skin above Hanzo’s heart, hot as a brand. “I want to be with you. I want you in my colors, in my space, in my life. I’m sorry-- I’m always dragging you around -- I want you, but I can’t let you--”

    “That is not your decision to make,” Hanzo bites, causing Jesse to gasp a little. “Not alone. I want you, as well. I do not see why we can’t have what we want.”

    “You shoulda got a choice,” Jesse hisses, though he doesn’t pull away. “You shoulda had the whole world to pick from. Not just me, just ‘cause I was _there_.”

    “I have had the world,” Hanzo hisses back, holding tighter. “And I _decided_ I want the one who was still willing to come to me when I had nothing. That is not a quality to be dismissed lightly.”

    Jesse chokes on a laugh.

    “Oh, Darling,” he croons, “take care. If you aren’t cautious, you’ll never be rid of me.”

    Hanzo wraps them both in the serape, his arms a trap the other man has no will to escape. He whispers his words directly into the crook of Jesse’s neck, just above his pounding pulse: “Listen to me. Forget caution.”

    His lips graze the skin above Jesse’s jugular, and the man keens.

 

    As far as Moments go, it’s hardly the picture book ideal: they are still bloody and dirty, and both of them still have flickers of their beasts in their eyes. They lay curled together on the cobblestones with a ruined castle behind them and pieces of a decaying monster around them as their teammates carefully make their way over to investigate. For now, though, it’s as perfect as it can get.

    They are alive.

    They are more men than beasts.

    They are together.

 

    The things that stand between them are all undone, and they can move forward, towards the elusive Happily Ever After. And with the way they’re going, they just might make it.

 

 

 


End file.
